


Pink in the Night

by lemonfish



Series: Geyser [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 01:32:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonfish/pseuds/lemonfish
Summary: A prequel toBeckon me to come.Greg was unbelievably hungry. And tired.He scowled at the reports as if they had personally offended him. Then he decided that since nobody would review them until tomorrow afternoon, he’d cut his losses and go home for the night, hoping he’d had the foresight to have some leftovers in his refrigerator so he wouldn’t die of starvation.His phone buzzed repeatedly as he was locking up his office. A call from an unlisted number.‘Lestrade,’ he grunted into the phone.‘Good evening, Inspector,’ a smooth, familiar voice poured directly into Greg’s ears.





	Pink in the Night

_One year ago_

Greg groaned as he signed off on a report and saw he had another three to review. Normally he’d take time to eat something, even if it’s just a sandwich from Pret, if he’s staying this late. However, thanks to Sherlock’s several breaches of protocols, Greg had been rather absorbed in ensuring that the reports were worded carefully enough that they weren’t _technically_ untrue, but neutralised the effect of, say, Sherlock taking several crucial pieces of evidence from the scene.

Greg was unbelievably hungry. And tired.

He scowled at the reports as if they had personally offended him. Then he decided that since nobody would review them until tomorrow afternoon, he’d cut his losses and go home for the night, hoping he’d had the foresight to have some leftovers in his refrigerator so he wouldn’t die of starvation.

His phone buzzed repeatedly as he was locking up his office. A call from an unlisted number. 

‘Lestrade,’ he grunted into the phone.

‘Good evening, Inspector,’ a smooth, familiar voice poured directly into Greg’s ears. ‘Please allow me to apologise for the trouble Sherlock has put you through today.’

‘How did you —’ Greg cut himself off, realising he was speaking to a Holmes. He’d only met Mycroft Holmes once, at a Met function where they had a brief conversation, but the man was hard to forget. He seemed to have the people skills Sherlock lacked, charming in conversation, while making pithy observations about some of the more scurrilous attendees even faster than Sherlock would. _Dangerous_ , Greg’s instincts had screamed at him.

 _Your type_ , they added unhelpfully as he watched Mycroft walk away later that evening. Lithe and graceful in immaculate black tie, he was the opposite of the small, locally destructive cyclone that was Sherlock. _Extraordinarily bad idea._

Greg shook himself back to the present, remembering to come up with a response. ‘All right.’ 

Silence from Mycroft.

‘Well?’ Greg asked, finally.

‘Well what, Inspector?’

‘You asked me to let you apologise, and I’m letting you. Yet I hear no apologies.’ _Good job, Greg. Take the piss out of a man who could probably have you seconded to Antarctica._

Thankfully, Mycroft chuckled over the phone. ‘Ah, yes. From what I know of you, however, you would appreciate a more substantial apology than simple words. I also know that you like Thai food and that you have not eaten for … seven hours, at least. Therefore, I would like to apologise by buying you dinner.’

Greg was too hungry to refuse. ‘Apology accepted. Apology will be even more accepted if dinner is amazing. But where do I meet you?’

‘No need to worry, Inspector; a car is waiting for you. The restaurant is only a few minutes’ drive away. I shall see you shortly.’ Mycroft ended the call. Greg headed out, keeping an eye out for a car, and there it was idling in front of his building – a black Maybach, low-key but undeniably elegant, much like its owner.

Getting into a strange car to an unknown destination should have given Greg more pause, but the promise of a delicious meal after a long day was too tempting to resist. ‘Hello,’ he greeted the chauffeur sheepishly as he opened the back door and tried not to gawk at the interiors. ‘Is this for me?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the chauffeur replied. ‘I’ll have you there in a few minutes.’

* * *

The restaurant wasn’t as posh as Greg had feared. While still definitely out of his price range, the low lighting, cosy feel, and polite staff put him at ease. He gave Mycroft’s name to the smiling maître d’ and was shown to a table straightaway. The man himself was already seated, attention on his phone, a stray lock of hair falling from where Mycroft had relentlessly tried to slick it back into submission. Greg couldn’t take his eyes off it.

‘Have a seat, Inspector. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you a lamb shank massaman; I hope you do not mind,’ he said, typing out a message on his phone.

‘Not at all. I love lamb. Guessing you’ve deduced that somehow.’ Greg made himself comfortable. A few seconds later, a waiter arrived, arms laden with their orders.

‘This is either fantastic timing or a delightful coincidence,’ Greg remarked as the dishes were set before them; the curry for him, the seabass for Mycroft.

Mycroft looked up at him, putting his phone away, and smirked. ‘Given what you know of the Holmeses, Inspector, which do you think it is?’

‘Smugness doesn’t become Sherlock, and it doesn’t become you either,’ Greg responded, but without any heat behind it. Mycroft waited for him to start eating before he started delicately slicing up his fish. 

‘This is _delicious_. It’s almost worth the RSI I’m sure to get from these extra reports I have to do for Sherlock.’

‘I do hope it doesn’t come to that. But thank you for accommodating my brother. I don’t believe I’ve shown my appreciation enough over the last few years.’

‘That’s fine, Mr Holmes. Neither has he.’

‘Nevertheless. Without this work, I don’t think I know what I could have done for him instead.’

‘Fancy that, a Holmes not knowing something,’ Greg joked. ‘I must be a lucky man to witness this.’

To his relief, Mycroft smiled in amusement.

Greg, still a little surprised that his stupid jokes were being received well, continued. ‘He’s all right, you know. He just needs … a connection to the rest of us mortals. I think John’s helping. Even if he _is_ getting kidnapped and whisked away to warehouses.’

‘Told you about that one, did he?’

‘I’m just thankful I was at least _invited_ to this dinner.’

Mycroft’s eyes sparkled at his joke, and Greg had to remind himself to be careful.

* * *

Over the next few months, every time Sherlock’s antics caused him to stay at the office late, Mycroft had called and invited him to dinner. They’d talk about the case; they’d talk about Sherlock; they’d talk about the Met; and one particularly memorable time, they’d talked about football. ‘You never struck me as someone who’d even be aware of football,’ Greg had said, to which Mycroft had replied ‘I’m a government functionary for Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Of course I’m aware of football’ with such disdain that Greg had laughed.

Greg was dangerously close to enjoying himself at these dinners.

One Thursday evening, his phone rang. Unlisted number.

‘I haven’t heard from Sherlock in days, unless you were planning on getting me dinner in anticipation of a future cock-up,’ he said before the caller could speak.

‘I know, Inspector; he’s out of the country at my behest. But it is so strange to ask for the pleasure of your company at dinner without the involvement of my brother?’

 _This is new._. ‘This is new,’ Greg replied, trying to tamp down the thrill that had just gone through him.

‘True. Should you decide to meet me for dinner, I will be at Quilon.’

‘Slumming it at St James’ Court today?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes. I was supposed to spend the night as a guest at Buckingham Palace, as I have an appointment with the Queen tomorrow morning, but I work best in solitude.’

Greg laughed. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

* * *

‘Why did you ask me to dinner, Mycroft?’ Greg asked, realising he’d had much more to drink than he’d meant to the moment he opened his mouth. _Damn this wine_ , he thought, topping up his glass and drinking more.

Mycroft smirked. ‘I’ve enjoyed our past dinners, and wished to have a pleasant evening after the day I’ve had.’

‘That bad, huh?’ Greg felt a pang of sympathy. He’d had a lot of rough days where all he wanted to do at the end was to relax and talk shite that had nothing to do with work. He could manage the ‘relax’ part, but finding someone to talk to was much harder. Knowing that Mycroft considered him a good candidate … well. _It’s getting warm in here._

‘I can’t tell you much, I’m afraid, but yes. _That bad_ ,’ he said, imitating Greg, who smiled in commiseration. Mycroft continued, ‘But thank you for coming today, even though you’ve had a bad day as well. I appreciate the company.’

‘How’d you figure I had a shit day — stray threads on my coat? Dirt on my shoes?’

Mycroft laughed. ‘My dear Inspector, I hope you are not insulted by this, but you’re not exactly the most difficult person in the world to read.’

‘Oi!’ Greg protested in mock offence. ‘All right, what gave me away?’

‘Your hands. Your long years of police work have taught you how to maintain a neutral expression, but when you’re stressed you often squeeze your thumb in your fist. I suspect it’s because, even subconsciously, you know not to throw a punch that way, so you’re in no danger of accidentally lashing out. Anger management classes five years ago?’

Greg was properly impressed. ’Good god. How did you know?’

‘There was budget for the Met to pilot some anger management programs back then.’

‘And of course you have access to that budget, somehow, in your job in Transport.’

Before Mycroft could reply, a discreet cough came from behind. ‘If I may take sirs’ last orders?’ the waiter asked. ‘The kitchen closes in five minutes.’

‘No need; we’ll depart. Please send the bill to my room.’

‘Of course, Mr Holmes. Please, take your time,’ the waiter said, before gracefully exiting.

‘Oh, is that the time? I’ll be on my way; thanks for dinner.’ Greg made to get up, but Mycroft cut him off.

‘Nonsense. I’ll call my car to give you a lift home. In the meantime, I have a 25 year old Macallan in my suite, if you’d like to wait for the car there.’

Greg felt like he was at a crossroads. Or teetering on the edge of a cliff, with everything hanging on his answer. 

‘Lead the way.’


End file.
